


Morning Wood

by CharismaticEnticer



Category: Die Anstalt
Genre: Doctor/Patient, Frottage, M/M, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, POV Third Person Limited, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Present Tense, Secret Sex, The worst pun in the world, that's what this is, what's the opposite of exhibitionism? where the thrill comes in NOT getting caught?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-22 05:06:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2495534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharismaticEnticer/pseuds/CharismaticEnticer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stay for whatever you want - the Rule 34, the foray into Wood’s head, even the writing style if that’s your bag. But come for the pun. <b>He</b> certainly will. </p><p>Birthday fic for a non-AO3 friendly friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning Wood

**Author's Note:**

> Whoo! I hope I'm really getting back on form this autumn! First a fic actually completed, and now birthday fic through serendipity that's actually not Counting!Verse stuff! If this keeps up, I might actually be able to write some original fic too and thus convince my Mum that I have value.
> 
> Die Anstalt © Martin Kittsteiner.

Dr Wood glares at the ceiling from on top of his bedcovers, caught between the dual demons of racing thoughts and all-consuming arousal.

It's vexing enough to be kept awake by the former. As much as the brain on the verge of sleep can come up with far more ideas than one wide awake could, even with better ones on rare occasions, he can't transcribe them accurately without switching the light back on and thus waking up the people or toys in adjacent rooms for no reason, thus turning blessing into curse. But at least in that state, he can actually have these flashes of inspiration. They don't have to be darkened or blotted out by an aimless but all too pointed physical **need** like this.  
He can't pin down what brought on this buzzing in his hood and his spine and the fabric directly between his feet; that's the worst of it. He completed today's shift as Head of Psychiatry, he conversed with Spieler about some of the patients' more urgent predicaments, he went to bed, he half-dreamt of things that now he cannot quite remember except for flashes of orange and purple and blue, and it awoke him and here it all is, wound tighter by the second.

His wing strays to what's flaring below and chafes against it; it only tenses him up and makes it worse. He knows it can't satisfy him, not here on his own, but even trying is better than just letting it burn and having otherwise coherent statements cut off with _[why is this happening NOW why not when I DON'T have important business tomorrow why why why]_ ad nauseum. After all, what else is he to do? Drag someone else into this to quench it for him?

...Hm. Actually, the more his mind and body lie at odds, the more tempting a prospect that sounds. He can't be the only sexually aware non-human in this building. That would be far too cruel. So all he needs to do is find one - just one - and have them deal with it, then he can be at ease in both senses, and no more will be disturbed than is necessary.  
A perfect idea to the distracted mind.

Who? That's the next step.  
Lilo is the first to crop up, but that's a definite nein. That sort of empathy would be far beyond him.  
This applies to Kroko as well; even if it didn't, he can see ads infatuation with Dolly from a mile away, and ad wouldn't want to jeopardize that.* That then eliminates the sheep herself for the same reasons.  
Sly, perhaps? Spieler did say something about... No, on reflection, that wouldn't work. Aggressive inward-turning phallophobia doesn't lend itself well to this sort of thing, and besides, would he even see the act through to its longed-for conclusion before his attention drifted? Probably not.

But who does that leave, then, besides one extremely frustrated raven? Surely, **surely** , someone has to have the capacity, the understanding, even the raw energy to --

The first colour of the haunting trio rises again.

So, afterwards, does he, from his fortress, heading into the night towards a specific bedroom. He's thought of just the toy.

-

Halfway to his destination, he passes over Sly, making his own journey through the margins between wall and floor in a pathetic attempt at secrecy. It will do no good to stop and send him back; the rule against patients leaving beds at night is no rule at all, more of an ineffectual suggestion. And besides, what is he himself doing if not that? So he lets him go for now.  
No, it's the room next to Sly's that he's looking for.

Going through the vaguely shut door finds Dub in bed, just as expected. He's restless even in slumber, it appears; he catches him in the midst of unconsciously turning towards the rush of air opening it causes.  
It's a good thing he's mastered the art of jumping onto mattresses, therapy or otherwise, without dislodging anything. No need to loosen the sheets too much too soon. Once he's done that and come closer to the turtle, he can see more unfolding evidence of a preoccupied night, in the darting eyelids and the tiny but sharp movements in his shoulders and, presumably, arms or hands. His colleagues have seen this before, so they say; their tactic was to give him a single pill a night for a three-day period, then take it away when it proved ineffectual.

"Makes you wonder why they didn't change the medication accordingly," he wonders, quite deliberately.  
Dub readjusts slightly again. "D'nt take drugs, y' know that."  
"I suppose that's as good an explanation as any."

It worked too well - before this next bait's fully out of his beak, the other actually does snap awake and see him.

He lets out a yell, scrambling as far back as the bunched quilt will allow; all that does is give Wood the chance to bridge the gap physically and try to shush him up. "I don't want anyone to _know_ I'm in here, thank you!"  
Mercifully, the next line's from Dub again, not from any of those 'anyones'. "What. Are you doing. In my room?" he says with no regard to composure, but at least some to volume.  
"Waiting for you to wake up. That strikes me as rather obvious."  
"Oh ha ha. _Why_ are you here, I mean? Is this about the tape thing? Cus A, that was so not my fault, and B, couldn't you wait until we're all up to tell me off for--"

"Dub, calm down. This isn't about what you've done... yet," he adds, having already squirreled away the confession as he watches his shoulders drop. "It's more about what I wish you to do. I've just come to ask your permission, as it were."  
"Pssh, like you asked permission to come in here at stupid o'clock at night to talk to me. Real moral consistency there, Wood."  
The doctor elects to ignore that.

"Look. The truth of the matter is, something is driving me to distraction tonight. I'm not sure where it came from - " and it's pretty embarrassing to admit this vulnerability to the now edging-to-bemused Dub - "but it's left me feeling... hm, what's the best way to...?" It's buzzing in a semi-explored place all the more now that it's being talked about; it shifts of its own will while he hunts for a non-vulgar term.  
So too do Dub's eyes, down to the part in question. "...Ah."  
"You know to what I'm referring?"  
"I've lived with Max for long enough. I'd know the signs anywhere."

A strange sense of hope swamps him. "Excellent! This means I can cut to the chase. I need someone to help me in quenching - this," he references the area again, "so that it doesn't persist into tomorrow and ruin any of my plans. And put frankly, I think you're the only one of the patients with enough prowess to do it. But if you refuse, obviously I'll have to find some other means, though I hope it won't get as far as that."

There's a slight kicking sensation behind Wood, what he guesses is the twitching of a foot as Dub tries to run through all that in his head. It's actually doing something to ease the tension, considering.  
"...You want to have sex with me?" he confirms eventually.  
"That's about the size of it, ja."  
"...Yeesh. Wasn't expecting to hear that tonight." Once more, there's a pause, a glove scritching at a delectable neck. Then, "Anything in it for me if I say yeah?"

"You get to have sex with me at all. You get affirmation that I deem you attractive enough for such an act. And I **do** deem you attractive. Are those not rewards in themselves?"  
He takes a quick glance at one of his biceps, flexes it subtly, and smiles even more so. "Point. You've got a deal."

\-----

... Strictly in confidence, a secret between the author and hopefully its audience, it's both pity and fortune that Dr Wood hasn't pursued Sly's path tonight. Perhaps eavesdropping on him and Spieler wouldn't get anything done, not to mention fizzle out the story. But they are talking, as this goes on, of things that would be of great significance to him had he done so.

Of attraction to therapists, for instance. Of how legal and sensible it is for patient or carer to act on it. Of the relationship between the two parties, and its being made up primarily of respect for boundaries and of trust, and... how does the human put it? "[No doctor with any kind of integrity would break that trust]"?

\-----

"Aah-- _shit-Wood-!!_ "  
"Sssh! They'll overhear you."  
"S-sorry. 's just..." A pant, a getting back of breath. "You're really _really_ good at that."

Given that they've only been 'properly at it' for ten seconds prior, it adds an extra twinge of pride to the sheer relief of these first few thrusts. It would have been sooner, but a turtle's shell is a hard thing to negotiate off together, particularly in the dark. And the brushing of fabric on freshly exposed fabric in the process worked both of them up, and made Wood remember that foreplay was necessary, and having had no idea before this of where his erogenous zones--

"Oi." With a nip of the mouth to the flesh normally hidden by hood, Dub's found one of his own. "We doing this or not?"  
Oh, they most certainly are; the mix of pressures makes him grind between again to confirm it. No need for words now. Not when suppressed grunts will suffice; not when the initial tightening of legs underneath and surrounding him tells him all he needs to know.

It's actually rather strange, the two entangled like this. To feel the shared weight of him and himself pressed into the yielding bed; to feel the other bucking back, against, because of him; to experience it so secretly, so silently - he didn't anticipate any of it in the day just gone. For the briefest of moments, he doubts this is happening at all, but he grabs the ineffectual wrists flirting at his sides with one wing and pins them - hard - above Dub's head for proof of his place, and the doubt is banished in the impact, the friction, sensation.  
This is real. It is all his, **he** is all his. And he's not sure if this or the physical side is best.

"Wood, har- go harder," he hears around him, obeys for his own benefit. He's found a rhythm now, the pair synchronizing in closer beats, bound tight together by each other. Claws and heels are digging in deeper, though to what he's lost track at this point; spatial awareness only comes through in terms of sound and that hastening touch, paling out the when and where more than he'd prefer. There's straining of the arms, either to break free or to succumb, he cannot know which, and a particularly fierce arc of back into just the right spot catches a moan deep in his throat, quickly stifled.

Or is that Dub making it, caught in the climax that he sought first? Yes, the limbs around, under, are quaking now, a creature spent, but Wood isn't done, though he's close, so close as to spur him on despite it all. He moves, he uses, he loses grip on one of the gloves, and it's pulling him nearer to the unbound below with enough ferocity to startle and hurt --

And, at last, blessed release.

-

It takes a minute, afterwards, for the - not the stars or their bursts thereof, not that, but he can see how some have made that mistake - to dissipate. He finds himself in the mess of bodies and libidoes first, and Dub next, but isn't sure what to say to bridge the two now that it's all over.

A thank you, perhaps? It's not exactly befitting; he doesn't feel so much grateful as sated, and he had as much a hand in that as the granter of consent. But it seems like the done thing to say in this situation, so: "Thank you for that."  
"Th-thanks yourself," he replies as they pull apart.

A second sentence is cut off by a thought, having remembered Sly. "...If, by chance, anyone asks about tonight, you were having a nightmare, and I came in to check up on you. Agreed?"  
"I don't have nightmares, Wood, they're never gonna believe that."  
"Dub--"  
"All right, all right, agreed."

He's just going to remove himself from the room and get enough sleep to face the morning, has already left the bed in fact, when Dub continues, "Hey. What time is it right now?"  
"It's... It was past midnight, the last time I checked. Why?"  
The resulting grin is soft, but with a hint of knowing he's about to say the wrong thing. "This sorta gives a new meaning to morning Wood then, doesn't it?"

"Pity. I was going to erase the 'tape thing' from your record tomorrow until you made that pun."  
"...Wait, were you really?"  
Wood shakes his head as he departs.  
"Thought not."

**Author's Note:**

> * \- For those who haven't been keeping tabs on my Tumblr, an explanation for Kroko's pronouns here will come in the next oneshot.


End file.
